


Checks and Balances

by AwaitTheMorrow



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Christmas, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, M/M, Mobster Derek Hale, No Angst, Rich Derek Hale, The Hale Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-18 06:27:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16989756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwaitTheMorrow/pseuds/AwaitTheMorrow
Summary: Stiles starts dating Derek after a chance encounter and can't believe how lucky he is.Derek is smart, funny and genuinely the sweetest person Stiles has ever met. The guy is perfect....Maybe a little too perfect.





	Checks and Balances

**Author's Note:**

> this fic isn't even remotely serious

Stiles is _so_ late.

His sneaker-clad feet thud heavily against the ground as he hastily exits his taxi and runs along the airport terminal towards the lobby. The overstuffed duffle on his shoulder bangs against his hip as he weaves and dodges passengers and pedestrians and tries to locate the departure area for his airline. He spares a quick glance at his watch which says he has all of twelve minutes until his flight is scheduled to leave. He is so, _so_ freaking late.

It’s not even his fault! He did everything right and was actually on time for once. He’d packed the night before, set his alarm early so that he would have ample time to shower, eat breakfast and get dressed without being in a rush. It’s not his fault that the first taxi he took broke down on the highway.

It’s also not his fault that the second taxi he called from the side of the road managed to get stuck behind a four-car pile up two miles out of LaGuardia, the crash taking up all but one lane. He’d been on time! Fate was against him, it was the only explanation.

He’s already checked in online so he should be fine, right? He doesn’t have any cabin baggage to check in, only the duffle as carry-on. All he has to do is print the ticket and run like a madman through the security clearance and do his very best to not look like a suspect on the loose, possibly screaming at people to get out of his way.

What’s the worst that could happen?

Lydia Martin, his one-time girlfriend and current good friend, is getting married this weekend to her sweetheart, Jordan Parrish. When he’d heard of the engagement, Stiles honestly tried to find it within himself to be bitter that his first love was permanently moving on with another guy.

It was hard though, Stiles didn’t feel that way about Lydia anymore and Jordan was just _so nice_. In fact, the guy may be the sweetheart of all Beacon Hills, coming onto the scene six years ago as a young, dashing deputy, a war vet complete with military manners. Even Stiles had a little crush on him for a time, had dirty little daydreams about corrupting Jordan from his straight-laced ways.  

Then Stiles moved to New York.

He spots the counter for his airline in the near distance and makes a break for it, swiftly weaving his way through the maze of people and narrowly avoiding bowling over several small children. With a burst of speed he races through, sneakers squealing across the linoleum.

Raising his eyes just for a moment to check he is heading the right way is when he slams full force into something solid and hard. He loses his footing and tumbles forward, sending himself and the person he bumped into crashing to the ground. Hard.

It feels like he just got body slammed by a concrete wall. It dawns of him amidst a series of pained grunts and groans; he’s landed atop of a broad man who, if Stiles’ splayed limbs are to be believed, is very built and well-dressed. The suit the man is wearing feels soft - _expensive_ \- as Stiles scrambles upwards on his knees and steadies himself, checking if the man is okay.

The man is wincing but he looks - well. He looks like he was carved by Michelangelo himself all high, sharp cheekbones, dark hair and bright green eyes. That’s not what Stiles should be looking for, Stiles probably just broke his coccyx or something. Shit.

“Oh god, dude, I am _so_ sorry! Are you okay?”

Once upright Stiles extends a hand down to the man who accepts with a firm grip and a wince, dusting his jacket off as he stands.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Nothing’s broken? Sorry man, that’s my fault, I wasn’t looking.”

The man nods, picking his briefcase off the ground. “I’ll live.”

Stiles goes to apologize profusely again but it is cut off by the booming tone of the loudspeaker.

“ _This is a final boarding call for flight AA179, please make your way to gate - ”_

Shit.

“Shit,” Stiles says, remembering his need to rush. “Sorry man, I’ve got to run or I’ll miss my flight. I hope you’re okay! And sorry!”

Waving to the man as he sets off in a run, shoulder protesting as the duffle is again heaved onto it.

The terminal is crawling with people. Stiles barely manages to not trip over luggage or bump into anybody else and is panting like a dog by the time he reaches the check-in area, sweat pooling uncomfortably on the small of his back and under his armpits.

Nonetheless relief bleeds through him as he approaches the self-serve electronic check-in machines.

They’re _all_ out of order.

No, no, no.

A cheery sign written in comic-sans states that all self-serve is out of order and to approach the check-in counter for all services. Stiles swivels his head around to look at the line for the counter, anxiety creeping up his throat. There’s only about six small groups people in line. He _might_ be fine.

Rushing over to the line Stiles stands behind a family of five. Two of the kids slap each other and yell obnoxiously, running circles around their parents. Frantically checking the time and mentally willing the line to move quickly Stiles nervously paces on the spot.

Every second that passes feels like an hour. Eventually he is the next one to be seen, the family before him loud and raucous at the counter in front of him.

While he approaches the next available counter Stiles sees the impeccably dressed man from before - the one he knocked over. The man bypasses the maze that is the economy line, walking straight up to the priority business class counter, next to Stiles own, where he is greeted warmly.

“Hi, sorry,” Stiles apologiezes to the staff member when she gets his attention, fumbling for his printed itinerary and passing it over. “I know I’m running _really_ late -”

“I’m sorry sir,” the uniformed woman cuts him off, “your flight has already boarded and closed the gates.”

His heart rate skyrockets. “Uh, okay. They can’t, um, re-open them?”

The woman looks sympathetic. “No sir, I’m afraid not. I can book you on the next available flight, if you’d like?”

Fuck. Wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans Stiles nods to himself, this is fixable right?

“Sure, yeah,” he says, adding belatedly, “thank you.”

The woman clicks the keys of the computer, tapping away for a few moments.

“Okay, let’s see. I can get you on a flight at noon or six o’clock? However the only seats available are business class for those flights.”

Stiles winces when he thinks of the measly three-hundred dollars he has in savings.

“H-how much for those?”

Click, click. “The best available price is $1400, sir.”

Fuck. “Uh. What about tomorrow?”

It’ll be pushing it. The rehearsal is tomorrow and the wedding the day after, on Saturday. He needs to be there for the rehearsal, but it’s the main event that really counts.

Click, click, tap, tap.

“I’m sorry, we’re booked out. The next available flight after today will be Monday morning.”

Stiles feels his heart sink like a stone. Wiping his hands up and down his face and trying to reign in a frustrated sigh, mind working in overdrive on how he is going to fix this.

“I have to be there by tomorrow at the latest,” Stiles says, biting his lip.

“I’m very sorry, sir. Perhaps you could try another - ?”

The woman is abruptly cut off when a similarly uniformed coworker approaches her, whispering in her ear and pointing to the guy Stiles collided into earlier. The man appears to be finished, picking up his briefcase and walking towards security, sparing Stiles a brief glance as he disappears. Stiles can’t make out what they’re saying, but the woman's eyes widen for a moment before her coworker walks back to their desk.

“Sorry about that,” she smiles at Stiles. “I have some good news, sir. The gentleman who my co-worker checked in appears to have overheard us. He has already paid for your seat on the flight at noon.”

“Okay, I’ll just have to - wait. Wait…. _what_?”

The woman clicks some more and prints off a ticket, handing it over to Stiles whose mouth is hanging wide open.

There is _no way_ some stranger just bought him a fourteen-hundred-dollar business class ticket! But the proof sits in his sweaty, shaking hands. What is actually happening right now?

“This is _insane_ ,” Stiles breathes. “I can’t accept this.”

Is he on camera or something? Stiles looks around wildly for a film crew but just sees some bored people in line.

“Sir?”

Stiles needs to tell this guy he can’t accept this. Or at the very least hug the dude for saving Stiles ass.

Stiles profusely thanks the staff members for their help and dashes towards security while clutching the ticket. He’s hoping that the guy hasn’t gone too far.

On the other side of security after being processed Stiles barely has his sneakers back on before he’s scanning the area, running from gate to gate in an attempt to locate the mysterious man. Chest heaving he runs, looking for a hint of the guy in his immaculate suit, asking kiosks and random passengers alike if a man of his description has been seen.

Despite his best efforts Stiles never finds him.

By the time Stiles reluctantly boards his own flight it hits him that the guy must’ve been in an exclusive lounge or something.

It doesn’t settle well with Stiles that his gratitude will never get to be expressed - but on the other hand, he can’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Greeted by a beaming stewardess with unlimited alcohol, it's the best flight he’s ever had, despite his guilt.

 

\------

 

The wedding went beautifully. Lydia looked resplendent in her white dress, as did Jordan in his suit against the backdrop of the historic Beacon Hills Hotel. Stiles’ dad cries a little during the wedding vows and he and Scott get blissfully drunk on free alcohol during the reception.

Everything goes to plan. Kira catches the bouquet, giving Stiles the opportunity to rib Scott about proposals and wedding bells. His best friend, hopeless as he is, just stutters and goes to get more champagne.

Stiles tells his friends and family all about the mysterious man and how cool it was to fly business class. They almost didn’t believe him until he produced the stubb of the ticket.

All up, it settles him to see his dad again, most of all. Seeing him in person is not quite the same as electronic correspondence. Skype and SMS doesn’t translate hugs or even the personal touch of penmanship. People can only be condensed into pixels for so long until they stop feeling like a hologram. It was intensely satisfying to be able to spend the week with his father, with Scott and the others, like he was back in high school. There’s an extra three hundred photos on his camera roll just to prove it.

He manfully doesn’t cry on the flight back home.

Once back in New York it’s back to the daily grind. The subway, rent, working two jobs and hating both of them.

It pays the bills though. Most of the time.

And hey, Stiles might be looking at a promotion soon. A management position became available at one of his jobs and Stiles is capable, willing and next in line if tenure has any bearing. If he’s picked, he can drop one of the jobs and never work another weekend again.

Okay, he’s holding against hope and hedging all of his bets against this. Unlike _every other_ co-worker he hasn’t had a day off in over a year, is always taking on extra tasks, picking up the slack that others leave behind. He works overtime and picked up the title of Employee of the Month for the last three months running.

It _shouldn’t_ surprise him when the position gets awarded to the bosses son.

It does though. Okay, it stings a little too - he’s earned this.

His dad always told to hope for the best -  but also to expect the worst - and here he is, a month after his best friends wedding.

Here being at a swanky bar for celebratory drinks, toasting a job he didn’t get to someone who doesn’t deserve it. It’s a little easier to cope with the crushing weight of inadequacy and disappointment when they’re bathed in alcohol.

It’s not like Jake, the bosses son, is incompetent - not entirely - but Stiles only likes nepotism when it benefits him personally. Like when his dad got him out of speeding fines back in high school or sometimes gave him slack when accessing confidential police files. Good times.

It’s not an ideal Friday night, literally rubbing shoulders with his co-workers in the busy bar as the drinks steadily flow in, what little conversation is heard over the music is shop-talk. Stiles could be on his couch right now eating Pop-Tarts and it would still be a more productive night. Sadly he admits it would be bad form to walk out and Stiles _needs_ this job dammit - his rent needs this job, his sad little succulent on his window needs this job.

Honestly, the only thing that will make the night even remotely tolerable is more drinks. All the drinks. The boss keeps ordering rounds of something that tastes like lemonade and piss - Stiles needs something a little stronger than lemonade and piss if he wants to make it through the night.

With that in mind, Stiles shoulders his way to the bar, weaving amongst dancing bodies and narrowly missing drinks getting spilled on him from those with stray arms and looser fingers. While he waits to be seen from the bar staff Stiles rests his elbows on the sleek mahogany counter, eyeing their selection of booze from behind the frenetic staff, mentally estimating his budget for the night.

God how he wishes he could just go home and stalk his friends on social media until he falls asleep.

It’s a drag, standing there while people shout out orders to the staff who probably get paid less than Stiles, club music pounding upon all of them. A bartender catches Stiles eye as he’s filling up the last patrons request, nodding at him.

Stiles opens his mouth to request his order when a hand abruptly squeezes his ass.

Irritated, Stiles pushes against the offending body that still hasn’t let him go. Stiles turns his head to scowl at the guy who smiles at him, all pale skin and sparkling blue eyes.

“Dude, can you back the fuck off?”

A brush of hot breath passes by Stiles neck by the back of his ear as the guy leans in, offending hands stroking down Stiles hips. Stiles squirms, trying to catch the eye of the bartender again, or hell, even security when the man murmurs in his ear.

“You’re so beautiful. I’ve been watching you since you walked in here.”

Stiles scoffs, raising his hand for attention. At that moment the lecher behind Stiles trails his hand down Stiles’ form, gripping his ass again. Stiles is about to elbow the guy in the throat when the movement is abruptly seized.

“Are you deaf? He said back off,” a voice snarls from behind him.

He’s about to turn around and tell the newcomer he has this handled before his brain stops for a second. It takes him a few seconds to place the familiar tone and when he does he turns, familiar stubble, foam green eyes recognizable even in the dimly lit setting.

“Are you okay?”

“Holy shit, it’s you,” Stiles whispers, then says it again louder.

The man must hear him anyway or read his lips because he smiles, reaching out to shake Stiles’ hand. The handsy guy who had been pushed aside sneers in their direction before stomping off.

“Small world,” the man says, looking Stiles up and down. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“What, no,” Stiles asserts, quickly backtracking when he sees the man take a step back, eyes widening.

“I mean, no, let _me_ buy _you_ a drink. Dude, I fucking owe you.”

The man rolls his eyes, stepping closer to stand flush against Stiles at the bar. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Are you kidding? You saved my ass twice now - like, literally saved my ass. What do you drink?” He asks as the bartender finally comes their way.

The man lists his order to the bartender, an espresso martini when Stiles orders his. From the corner of his eye Stiles can see the guy fishing for his wallet so he quickly grabs the two twenties from his own pocket and slaps it on the counter, grinning smugly at the man.

“What’s your name?” The man asks when they receive their drinks, turning slightly in towards Stiles.

“Stiles,” he says, reaching out to shake the man's hand for the second time that night.

“Derek,” the man replies, skin warm grip firm.

“So, Derek,” Stiles says into his beer, “do you habitually give people free flights or…?”

Derek dips his chin to hide the corners of his upturned lips, swirling his drink around in its glass.

“No, just the cute ones who knock me over.”

Stiles snorts, taking in the mans’ solid stature. “So, not a lot of people?”

“No. You stayed to make sure I was okay when you could have just run off. You didn’t demand to be seen first and you looked like you needed some help. I don’t know, I guess I wanted to pay it forward.”

“Damn,” Stiles says, wiping his thumb on the condensation on the glass, not sure how to feel about it. “Thank you, you seriously helped me out there, you don’t even know. I’ll pay you back.”

The man snorts, bumping his shoulder against Stiles’. “Don’t. Consider it a gift - I wanted to help.”

“I’m gonna pay you back, starting with this drink.” Stiles affirms, knocking his glass together with Derek’s.

“You’re not,” Derek says, turning fully to Stiles, close so that they can hear each other. “Don’t stress, I’m not hurting for money.”

“Me neither,” Stiles lies.

“Okay,” Derek says simply, signalling the bartender for a second round of drinks.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees. “Good.”

Before Stiles can react Derek slaps his credit card onto the table and slides it over, requesting a tab be opened with a charming smile. He directs the same smile to Stiles who frowns.

Oh, it’s on.

Except... it’s not on - he still has a table of co-workers and management to impress. Dammit. Tilting his head back to stare at the overhead lights he quickly gives Derek an apologetic look.

“Sorry, I’m here for a work thing,” he laments, gesturing vaguely behind him.

A wry, understanding smile comes over Derek’s expression, a small lilt to his shoulders. “It’s okay. I’m here to see a friend too.”

“Next round’s on me,” Stiles promises, fishing his phone from his back pocket and handing it over to Derek. “Gimme your number and let me know when you’re free.”

Derek accepts the device, typing in his details. “There,” he says, handing it back to Stiles.

“I’ll text you,” Stiles promises, pocketing his phone. “Keep your Saturday night free for some satisfying reimbursement.”

Derek bites his bottom lip and reaches out with his hand extended, pulling back into himself.

“I’ll see you then,” Derek agrees.

“Yeah. See you then.”

 

\----

 

True to his word, Stiles does text Derek to meet him at a restaurant in East Village the following Saturday. He didn’t really mean paying his debt to sound so much like a date but Derek didn’t seem bothered by it.

Derek, who is really freaking hot.

Like, _gorgeous_.

Anyway.

Stiles is scrolling through his phone and trying not to feel nervous when Derek walks into the restaurant. The place isn’t all that fancy so they guy almost looks like he walked into the wrong room with his impeccable suit, an expensive-looking watch hanging off his wrist like a designer manacle. Derek manages to make it work though as he exudes an air of confidence, heads turning to glance appreciatively at him. When he sees Stiles he smiles and joins him at the table. Stiles, feeling slightly self-conscious in his hoodie and jeans, smiles back.

“Nice place,” Derek comments, looking around the room.

Stiles shrugs. “They have good food.”

Cheap too, but he doesn’t mention that. They order when a waiter approaches their table. Derek orders a white wine when prompted and Stiles does the same.

“So,” Stiles begins once the waiter leaves. “You live here in New York or are you just following me?”

Derek smirks. “Born and raised. You?”

“A native, huh? I’m from California originally but I moved here for school and I dunno, forgot to leave or something. S’where I was going that day.”

The waiter brings their glasses and pours their wine, prompting a lull of silence between them.

“Sounds like fate, then,” Derek says, sipping his glass.

“What does?”

“Us bumping into each other. You know, literally.”

“Maybe,” Stiles says, swallowing his own wine. “So what do you do for work, Derek?”

Derek shrugs off his suit jacket, hanging it off the back of the chair and revealing an impeccably white dress shirt underneath. Stiles gaze follows the slope of Derek’s shoulders, the hint of collarbone when the shirt shifts.

“I work in HR.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” Stiles responds, trying to imagine Derek behind an office desk. “Do you like it?”

Derek smiles. “It’s... okay, it’s my family’s business, so it is what it is. What about you?”

Stiles shrugs, tapping at his glass with his fingernails.

“Bit of this, bit of that, y’know. Mostly admin stuff - pretty boring, but it pays the bills.”

“Everyone’s gotta eat,” Derek says.

“Amen to that.”

They talk about their lives, their interests. Despite their obvious gap in socioeconomic status they seem to have a lot in common - similar shared interests in sports and TV, tastes in music, political outlooks and a deep devotion to their family.

Turns out that Derek has a dry wit that leaves Stiles snorting unattractively more than once throughout the night and as the hours drip by it feels more and more like a date. It’s hard to get a read on Derek, he seems to be enjoying himself, but maybe he’s just really here to humour Stiles about paying him back?

Stiles is feeling good though and doesn’t want to leave, so he orders dessert and they share a slice of cheesecake, their spoons clanking together as they take a bite.

Once they’ve eaten and the check has come Stiles makes sure to snag the little black book before Derek can get his hands on it, locking eyes with the man as he hands over his card, daring him to say otherwise.

“So,” Stiles says after he’s basically signed away half of his bank balance. “This was nice.”

“It was,” Derek agrees, moving out of his seat and extending his hand out to Stiles to help him up. For some reason the gesture gives him butterflies, as does when Derek places the same hand on Stiles lower back to guide him outside the restaurant.

The night air is still warm from the day, yet somehow makes Stiles shiver as they linger out the front. He rubs his hands together to warm them and turns to Derek.

“I just wanted to thank you again for what you did -”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts, stepping closer and facing him.

“Don’t tell me not to thank you.”

“Fine - how about I’d like to see you again, but I don’t want you to think it’s because you owe me anything. You don’t.”

“I don’t want charity,” Stiles says stubbornly, locking his gaze with Derek’s.

“What about random acts of kindness?”

“From a complete stranger?”

“Am I a complete stranger still?” Derek asks, lips quirking up as he takes a step closer.

Stiles scoffs. “I guess not, now that I know you’ve never eaten a shawarma and have shitty taste in wine.”

Under the lights Derek’s eyes glitter in amusement. “You’re going to let me take you out next week.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” Derek nods. “We can even call it a date this time instead of reimbursement.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles agrees, stepping closer until their chests are almost flush together, faces inches apart. “But I’m paying. Leave whatever money you have at home, ‘cause it’s on me again.”

“Fine,” Derek agrees. “But only if I can kiss you.”

“Fine,” he says before Derek brings his hands up to cup Stiles face, pressing a sweet, chaste kiss to his lips. It’s short and borderline innocent but it still makes Stiles toes curl in his sneakers, his hands coming up to lightly hold Derek’s wrists.

Once they’ve parted Derek takes a step back, thumb grazing against Stiles’ lower lip.

“See you next week, Stiles.”

 

\------

 

Derek was obviously a man of significant wealth.

It was never said aloud but it was spoken in what he wore, the quality of his adornments, the way he drove around Manhattan in the latest model car, his casual indifference to money.

Their second ‘date’ had gone just as well as the first. Stiles had been worried that Derek would choose a venue that would test the limits of Stiles’ credit card, but Derek showed up with homemade ham and cheese sandwiches and insisted on a walk through Central Park, hands intertwined. The only thing Stiles paid for was the train fare.

Their third date was a movie. Stiles paid for the tickets and the food, victoriously shoving popcorn down his throat as the film played. But he quickly forgot about his silent win when Derek placed an arm around his shoulders and kissed his cheek, prickly stubble tickling his skin.

See, Stiles quickly learns that Derek is sweet. Like, super sweet and _crazy_ generous. Derek opens doors for Stiles, tips waiters generously, is nice to retail staff and never, ever comments on Stiles ratty converse and always, _always_ drops some cash on the homeless.

It makes Stiles feel a nauseating mix of inadequate and enamoured that he isn’t really quite sure how to process. On one hand Stiles just doesn’t get it - he’s a college dropout working for minimum wage, is kinda morally ambiguous, has no health insurance and is maybe passingly attractive in a baby’s-first-twink kind of way.

Derek on the other hand is like... hollywood levels of hot, crazy smart and funny, financially successful, stable in his career and generally a really nice fucking guy. And for some reason he likes Stiles. Likes kissing him on the cheek, his wrists, his lips. Likes, placing quick kisses up his neck to his mouth, likes sucking and nibbling on Stiles lower lip, likes touching Stiles’ tongue with his own.

They first have sex after their sixth date.

Stiles invites Derek to his place for the first time, a little low on funds and a little low on the motivation to dress up and be ‘on’, Stiles apartment is all second-hand furniture, all family photos in thrift-store-bought frames, all leaking kitchen sink and his tiny, tiny bedroom.  

Derek says nothing about the claustrophobic kitchen or the old, small bar fridge Stiles uses to store his food in. After a long, shitty week Stiles isn’t in the mood for anything more complicated than stir-fry, his monetary compensation in the form of cauliflower and bell peppers.

Derek’s kisses taste like Stiles’ store-brought teriyaki sauce that night.

Huddles together on Stiles sofa they watch X-Files reruns, debating on the Scully/Mulder romance and the best season overall.

“Season seven,” Derek argues on Stiles couch, pressed tightly against one another. “It's the beginning of the end, it’s so good.”

“Season eight,” Stiles counters, nudging against Derek’s warm body, gesturing at his TV. “Doggett is _the fucking shit_. Fuck Mulder, he takes such good care of Scully - look!”

Derek grips Stiles’ hip, sliding his hand down until it reaches Stiles knee. He pulls to haul Stiles’ upper thigh to rest over Derek’s lap.

“I’ll take care of you,” Derek whispers, bringing their faces close together, heated breaths warming Stiles face.

It somewhat surprises him, but the display of possession mostly evokes arousal that Stiles didn’t realise he was susceptible to, grinning as he closes the gap between their lips, kissing lewdly against the alien reveal on the screen. Shifting slightly Stiles swings his leg fully so he’s upon Derek’s lap, straddling his thighs without once breaking their kiss.

They make out for a while, long after Stiles legs get tired and Derek presses him against the length of the sofa, unzipping Stiles’ jeans with a wandering hand. Shifting slightly, Stiles manages to get his jeans down to his knees but struggles to kick them off without kneeing Derek in his family jewels.

“Wait, let me...” Stiles says against Derek’s mouth, moving out from under him to stand, freeing himself of his jeans and kicking them on the floor and removing his hoodie, leaving him in only a shirt and his boxer-briefs.

Derek sits up and spreads his legs wide, looking Stiles up and down unashamedly. In a rare burst of confidence Stiles takes his shirt off too, dropping it by his feet.

“C’mere,” Derek says, reaching out to take Stiles hand. Arousal burns hot in Stiles stomach as he moves to stand between Derek’s legs, nearly naked while the other man is still fully dressed.

With touch as light as a feather Derek slowly trails his fingers up Stiles thighs, coming up to rest on Stiles hips. Leaning forward slightly he presses a kiss just above Stiles navel and looks up to smile at him, all the while rubbing his hand gently across Stiles hardening cock.

Stiles swallows roughly, hands moving to stroke Derek’s cheeks. “You gonna take your clothes off?”

Derek shrugs, pressing another kiss to Stiles’ stomach. “Dunno. Kinda like you like this.”

“What, at your mercy?”  
  
“ _Are_ you at my mercy? You tell me what you want to do.”

A mental image plays in Stiles head and before he can play it cool, says:

“I really want your dick in my mouth.”

Cool as a cucumber, Derek lets go of Stiles hips and leans back on the sofa, spreading his legs a little bit wider. He makes no move to unzip his jeans and tilts his head up at Stiles, raising his eyebrows.

Looks like it’s up to Stiles then.

His own cock is throbbing by now, the air between them charged and thick by the pseudo power play. It’s barely begun and it’s already one of the hottest sexual encounters he’s ever had. Stiles drops to his knees on the carpet and shuffles closer. Just like Derek did to him before, he trails his hands up Derek’s thighs, leaning up and forward to catch Derek’s lips in a short kiss.

“Anyone ever tell you you’re very sweet, baby?” Derek asks as Stiles focuses on his task works the zipper down. Derek rises a little to push his jeans and underwear down just below his ass, freeing his length from the layers of material.

Stiles doesn’t know why, if it’s the pet name or the compliment - or both - but it makes him flush and feel a little shy. He shakes his head nonetheless, taking Derek’s hard length in his hand and stroking it softly.

“Sarcastic little shit is the term used most often,” Stiles says, leaning forward to lick the tip, warm and salty against his tongue.

Derek huffs a laugh, “¿Porque no los dos?”

Luckily Derek’s dick wasn’t in his mouth when Stiles laughs or he would have choked.

“Oh my god, you are such a dork.”

“You like dorks though.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, kissing the base of Derek’s cock and licking upwards, bringing the entire head into his mouth and sucking. Relaxing his throat he works his way down Derek’s length, managing to fit most of it in his mouth. Derek tilts his head back and breathes heavily through his nose, fingers twitching.

He bobs his head up and down, using a hand to jack whatever his mouth can’t reach. All the guys Stiles has given blowjobs to before either like to pull his hair, scratch his scalp or put a finger in his mouth beside their own dick. Derek though, he just alternates between gently brushing his knuckles against Stiles temple and tenderly stroking his hairline with the ghost of his fingertips.

It’s….actually really nice. Comforting even.

Lifting off of Derek’s cock Stiles decides to pay some attention to his balls, mouthing at them wetly, not minding the wiry thatch of pubic hair that tickles his skin. When he licks at the skin of the junction between Derek’s balls he looks up at the man who is looking back at him, cheeks red, mouth open and eyes hazy. It makes Stiles feel a little powerful, knowing he has rendered the normally unflappable man into such a state.

Placing a kiss to the underside, just below the head he goes back to the tip, licking lightly at the slit and tasting the precome that has begun seeping out. As he’s jacking the rest of the length with his hand Derek tugs at his earlobe.

“Come here,” Derek says, breathing heavily. Stiles scrambles up to straddle Derek’s lap again, shedding his own underwear in the process, desperate to get himself off too.

Wrapping his arms around Derek’s neck and kissing him, he sighs into the man's mouth as their cocks come into contact, rocking against him. Stiles feels the hint of denim on his bare thighs, the soft fabric of Derek’s henley against his own bare chest, inexplicably aroused that the man is still essentially fully dressed while Stiles is completely naked. Derek’s hand comes to grip their cocks, kissing a trail across Stiles’ jaw and down his neck, sucking and biting at the skin there. Stiles tilts his head to give him better access, the prickly stubble on the man's jaw adding an extra layer of spine-tingling pleasure to the action.

Stiles comes first minutes later to the symphony of their combined heavy breathing, come splattering over himself and Derek’s henley. Once he comes back down he slows the roll of his own hips, no longer chasing his own pleasure, and starts jacking Derek’s cock until he follows suit with a strangled groan, come spilling over the both of them.

Derek stays over that night for the first time. Huddled together on Stiles’ tiny bed, chest-to-chest and legs intertwined he looks around the moonlit apartment and smiles into Stiles’ hair.

“I like this place.”

“It’s not much,” Stiles mumbles from where his face is buried in Derek’s neck. A hand strokes lightly up and down his back. “But it’s home.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Since college,” he yawns. “A few years. Was the first place I’ve ever called my own, y’know?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Since leaving home it was the one thing I could say was mine, I did it with no ones help.”

Stiles doesn’t go into detail about the feeling of emancipation he gets from having something that has nothing to do with his father's position or being friends with Scott or the influence of Lydia. It might not be a five-star penthouse or be in the best location, but for now it’s his - his space, his sanctuary.

Derek kisses his temple and resumes stroking Stiles back until he falls asleep.

 

\---

 

Life goes on in that weirdly quick way it does when you’re an adult - seasons pass in a blink and months seems like bloated minutes, work weeks drag at the beginning and race by the end. Before he knows it it’s been six months since he started dating-slash-repaying Derek and he’s honestly the happiest he’s been in a long time.

He still hates his job, the commute, the distance between himself and his family but Derek has proven himself to be an unshakeable pillar of support, filling a void that Stiles didn’t realize was empty until it was allocated to Derek.

Stiles is on the subway home from work when he receives the text message from Lydia that she is coming up to visit in two weeks with Jordan as a part of their belated honeymoon.

Excitedly he calls her and she picks up straight away. They spend the rest of their night catching up on each others lives, their friends lives and plans for their week long stay in New York. Lydia tells him about married life, how weird it is to call herself Lydia Martin-Parrish and she asks him about his own love life. He tells her about Derek.

“You’re going to introduce us, right?” Lydia asks over the phone as Stiles gets home, locking the door behind him.

“If he’s free, yeah,” Stiles says non-committedly, perusing through his fridge for a well earned beer. “He works a lot.”

“Where does he work?”

“All over. He says the company deals with a ton of smaller offices and departments so, he goes where he’s needed.”

“Look at you, dating a corporate hotshot. Remember in high school you said your dream was to run away with an ex-con tattoo artist who would tattoo you for free?”

Stiles laughs, sticking a frozen dinner into his microwave. “Why do you remember that?”

“I’ve been trying to forget it.”

“That was, like, my ultimate teenage rebellion. Stick it to the man, marry a convict and ride off into the sunset.”

“Now look at you. You sold out.”

Stiles sighs, watching the timer on the microwave. “I can’t help it. He has a beautiful dick and an even better face - and for some reason he likes me.”

“Oh Stiles. I can’t wait to see you - I miss our chats.”

Joy swells in his heart and it feels somewhat like completeness.

“Me too.”

 

\---

 

The feeling lasts for a couple of days before life sees fit to shove a splinter up his nether regions.

After his call with Lydia he texts Derek and asks if he’s free at any time when Jordan and Lydia visit, voicelessly hoping that Derek will find the time. Somehow at the same time anxiety runs rampant in his body at the thought of both sides of his life colliding.

Derek calls and they talk. Derek has this way of reassurance, this air of confidence that tells the world that he is in control, that with the skill of his eye and hands he is the only captain of his ship, fate and circumstance be damned. It’s with the same conviction that he assures Stiles that he will make time for him, just like he has every time before.

Everything feels like it’s going okay for once. Sure his work life needs some reassessment but it finally feels like he has a path, even if it’s limited, but short term plans are better than the dark times when he had none at all. It feels good.

Two days after his call with Lydia he opens his mail that he collected from his letterbox that evening. The first he opens makes his heart plummet through his stomach straight onto the floor.

It’s an eviction notice.

The letter that accompanies it explains that the owner of the building is having it demolished to make way for more modern, sophisticated apartments - starting at the low, low price of one-point-two-million for a one bedroom. Once Stiles’ lease is up he is expected to be out, adios, ciao.

Before he realizes he’s doing it he’s on the phone to Derek, looking outside his window that overlooks the building next door and ranting about the unfairness of it all, barely holding in angry tears.

Derek stops by later that night, long after Stiles is pissed off and now just flatout resentful of the perils of tenancy in a big city. Stiles lets him in, hugging him tightly when he steps through the door.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Derek says into his hair, arms around Stiles waist and softly swaying them side to side.

“They’re going to kick out all of these tenants so they can make a buck,” Stiles complains. “Mrs Chen next door has been here for _twenty years_. Fucking assholes.”

“Fucking assholes,” Derek agrees, rubbing Stiles lower back and leading him to the kitchen to heat up some water. As Derek fills the kettle up, Stiles zeroes in on a small patch of dark red on the mans otherwise pristine white shirt.

“What the hell, is that blood?” Stiles asks, stepping closer to inspect his boyfriend.

“Stiles,” Derek huffs with a hint of laughter when Stiles hands graze up his side, searching for injury. “I had a blood nose today, that’s all.”

“Aw babe, howcome?” Stiles pouts, pressing a kiss to the sharp tip of Derek’s nose. “A hard day at work?”

“Better now,” Derek says, distracting Stiles with a kiss, pressing him up against the kitchen counter.

Later when they’re naked and sated in bed and curled under the covers, Stiles lays upon Derek’s chest, head resting on his heart.  

“I don’t wanna move,” he whispers.

“We’ll work something out,” Derek promises. “I’ll help you.”

 

\-----

 

Stiles spends the following week searching through the internet for places to rent.

Depressingly, the only things that are even remotely within his budget are share accommodation or places a further hour outside of the city.

He complains about it plenty to his dad and Scott who are sympathetic to his situation, his dad even offering to subsidy his rent until he can find a better paying job. It’s tempting, but Stiles declines anyway - while he doesn’t intend to become a lifer at the office he just doesn’t know when he can leave either of his jobs. And the whole appeal of this place was that it was something that Stiles did and had all on his own.

Every night is spent in a mad spiral of seeking jobs and places to rent.

Maybe he can become a stripper for a third job or become a camboy or something. That’s a thing, right? Surely there’s a market for pale, mole-y white guys out there.

All of his searches come up mournfully short, despite his best efforts. There’s a lot of anxiety-fuelled pizza binges that week.

Salvation comes on the morning that Lydia arrives.

Stiles has to work so he can’t meet them at the airport but they’ve agreed to meet at a restaurant for dinner that night. As he’s preparing to leave for work a letter is slipped under his door. Frowning, he reads the envelope - it’s addressed to the occupiers so he slips it into his backpack to read on the train.

For once Stiles manages to snag a seat on the train. It’s only when he’s searching his bag for his headphones that he remembers the letter. It has the markings of his real estate agent on the letterhead so he opens it wearily, nervous about it’s contents given the last letter he received from building management.

Relief floods through him as he reads it over, tension he didn’t know he was holding seeping out of his shoulders.

“Oh fuck yes,” he whispers to himself.

The ownership of the building has changed hands and in a last minute ruling was given landmark status by the City of New York due to its age.

He doesn’t have to move!

Grinning to himself, Stiles can’t believe his luck. He texts Derek and his dad to share the good news, feeling like he just won the lottery. There’s a spring to his step when he gets off the train, genuinely delighted by the turn of events. He stops at a bakery on his way to work, treating himself to a coffee and blueberry muffin. Everything’s coming up Stiles.

Even his work day goes pretty well, all things considered. The printer doesn’t jam on him once and the managers are out all day in meetings, meaning he doesn’t have to put up with their smarmy faces and pretend that he likes them. It’s pretty great.

It gets even better when he reaches the restaurant that night, pulling Lydia into a hug when he sees her, heck, he even hugs Jordan. They both look beautiful and healthy and happy.

They tell him about life back at home and about how his dad is doing. After some heavy eye-rolling Jordan confirms to continue keeping a firm eye on his dad's diet.

“Are you coming home for Christmas?” Jordan asks over dessert.

Stiles shakes his head. “Nah. Dad’s working that day anyway and I agreed to spend it with Derek and his family.”

“Have you met them yet?” Lydia asks, looking at him over her irish coffee.

“Nope.”

Jordan laughs. “That’s crazy. You’re leaving the ‘meet-the-parents’ until Christmas?”

“Yup.”

“You’re insane,” Lydia shakes her head, setting her cup on the table to steal a bite of Jordans dessert.

“What? Derek says they’re like, _super_ intense and hard to please. I’ve been trying to put this off as long as possible.”

“And we get to meet him this weekend, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms. “He said he’s got a family thing on but he’ll make time to drop by.”

“Are we your convenient excuse to avoid his family?”

Stiles gives her a look. “Of course you are, do you even know me?”

\---

  
Stiles spends his Saturday morning showing Lydia and Jordan around the sights. It’s bitterly cold in New York at this time of year and he needs practically his entire wardrobe to keep himself warm. They spend the day taking photos of the landmarks and each other, sending them to their friends and making silly faces.

At night they relocate at Stiles place, tired and cold after a day out in the burgeoning winter weather. Derek’s still another hour off and so they fill in the time drinking wine and talking, the television on for white noise in the background.

Their attention to the screen is momentarily caught when a news piece starts about a political corruption scandal and a dossier that reveals widespread bribery around congress.

“Disgusting,” Stiles says, eyes trained on the TV and a little tipsy.

“Well I sure as shit didn’t vote for them,” Lydia mumbles.

“I think they’re a result of _not enough_ people voting,” Jordan says.

“Hey, I voted,” Lydia says, affronted. “Just not for these clowns.”

Stiles snorts. “I’m surprised you haven’t decided to go for office yet.”

Lydia raises her eyebrows at him. “Oh please, do you honestly think I could tolerate wearing a shapeless pantsuit everyday?”

A knock at Stiles’ front door interrupts the conversation.

“I’ll be back,” he tells them, quickly moving through the apartment to open the front door. A smile breaks out on his face when he sees Derek behind it.

“Hey you,” Stiles greets, leaning in for a quick kiss and closing the door behind him.

“Hey yourself,” Derek replies, sliding his heavy coat off his shoulders and placing it onto a wall hook. “You get the party started?”

“Sure did. How was your family thing?”

Derek snorts, unwinding his scarf and placing it on the same hook. “Tedious as hell. Can’t ever really escape the job when you work for the family business.”

“Sounds shitty,” Stiles offers with a frown, reaching out to squeeze Derek’s shoulder sympathetically.

“It’s fine. They can’t wait to meet you, though.”

“Same,” Stiles says, eyes focused on the expanse of skin of Derek’s neck where he scratches it.

Derek just raises his eyebrows at the obvious lie, removing his gloves next and placing them in his coat pockets.

“What? I am,” Stiles defends.

“Sure.”

“I am! But, I mean it’s not like I can’t be keen and terrified at the same - _holy shit_ , Derek - what did you do to your hand?”

Rushing forward to cradle Derek’s hand he inspects the skin, running his fingers lightly over it as gently as he can muster. It’s bruised to all hell with barely-formed bright red scabs covering his knuckles. It looks like it’s had quite a beating.

“It’s nothing, Stiles. It feels fine.”

“It does not _look_ fine, Derek.”

“Believe me, my pride hurts way more than this,” Derek says, ducking his chin, trying to pull his hand back. He gives up when Stiles determinedly hold on, fingers trailing over the bruises with a feather light touch.

“What did you do?”

“Slammed my car door on it this morning,” he says quietly. Derek sounds so profoundly embarrassed that Stiles finally lets his hand go, not knowing whether to tease or fuss over him.

He settles for a weird pout as he tries not to smile, thinking that he has never met someone as clumsy as Derek. And coming from Stiles that is really something - Derek is a fucking klutz extraordinaire, a new injury coloring his skin almost every time Stiles sees him. Slipping down the stairs, tripping into a door, you name it, Derek’s got a story for it.

“ _Babe_ ,” Stiles admonishes. “Have you seen a doctor?”

“It’s fine,” Derek shrugs, flexing his injured hand to prove it’s not broken. “I’ll live. Hey, have you done something with your hair?”

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest. “I washed it. You’re not changing the subject.”

Derek grins, stepping closer to him. “You sure? It looks different, looks really nice.”

“Yes, I’m sure. You’re getting an ice-pack for that hand.”

“You look really beautiful tonight, baby,” Derek ignores him, placing a kiss on Stiles forehead and then his temple. “Besides, you don’t even own an ice-pack - or even a bag of peas.”

“I could,” Stiles sniffs.

“I’m okay, honestly. Introduce me to your friends.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles accepts, taking Derek’s uninjured hand and leading him into the living room. Lydia and Jordan are already standing to greet him, welcoming smiles on their faces.

“Derek, this is Jordan and Lydia. Guys, this is Derek, my boyfriend, or my male life-companion, as the straights would call it.”

With a smile that could charm the devil himself, Derek shakes their hands and tells them how nice it is to finally meet them. Stiles watches the exchange on the sidelines, a little nervous. It’s kind of the first meshing of his old and new life and if he’s honest, he’s really hoping they blend together well.

When the introductions are out of the way they settle back onto the sofas, Lydia and Jordan on one, Stiles and Derek on the smaller one. There’s a moment of awkward silence where everyone kind of looks at each other, sizing each other up and getting a read on the room.

“So,” Derek says some moments later. “Stiles tells me you got married recently - congratulations.”

Lydia and Jordan briefly share a warm look, linking their hands together. “About nine months ago now,” Lydia smiles.

“Wow. How did you two meet?”

Oh shit.

Stiles rapidly drains the remainder of his wine glass in a single gulp, avoiding eye contact from anyone.

“We met through Stiles actually,” Lydia says.

“Uh, I work with Stiles’ dad,” Jordan offers. “When Stiles and Lydia dated he would sometimes bring her around - ”

Derek’s hand comes across to clamp the inside of Stiles’ thigh. His cheeks burn as Derek’s fingers lightly squeeze the flesh of his inner thigh, subtle enough for an observer to miss, but unmistakable for Stiles to miss.

“We dated for like, _five minutes_ in high school,” Stiles says dismissively, watching for his boyfriends reaction at the corner of his eye.

“More like a year,” Jordan disagrees with a laugh. Stiles could kill him. “Anyway, Lydia and I kept on bumping into each other on her first summer back from college. I asked her out for dinner and the rest was history.”

Derek smiles, sending a look at Stiles.

“Sounds very sweet. I’m glad we could finally get the chance to meet.”

“Have you converted Stiles to the Yankees yet?” Lydia asks, moving her foot out to lightly kick at Stiles’ calf.

“Actually,” Stiles cuts in to speak on his own behalf, “Derek took me to what - _four_ \- Mets games last season?”

Derek smiles, stroking his thumb over Stiles’ thigh.

“I do my best to support all of Stiles choices, even if I don’t agree with them.”

“As long as it’s not the Dodgers,” Stiles adds.

“As long as it’s not the Dodgers,” Derek confirms. “Or the Braves.”

Talk evolves and devolves from there, from baseball to football to celebrity to politics. They order Indian and drink a lot more wine, each of them with a rosy flush from the alcohol once it hits midnight. Derek’s hand doesn’t leave Stiles’ thigh the entire time.

It delights Stiles to see Derek engage with Lydia over a battle of wits, hashing out scientific theory while their words get increasingly slurred the more they drink. Jordan and Stiles steal amused glances at each other all night.

When Lydia and Jordan get ready to leave it gets a little weird.

Jordan stares at Derek a moment too long, prompting a bout of awkward laughter from Stiles and Lydia.

“It’s been bugging me all night,” Jordan says to Derek. “I _swear_ I know you from somewhere.”

Derek just laughs and says he has one of those mistakable faces, helping the guy to his feet and helping Lydia into her jacket as they head towards the front door, a taxi already waiting for them. Hugs are exchanged in farewell and Stiles promises to see them off at the airport the following day to see them off.

He can’t help but lean into Derek as he watches them enter the taxi from his window, taking comfort in the warmth of his skin and his scent.

Once they’ve truly departed Stiles dashes for the bathroom, desperate to piss after sitting and drinking all night, too comfortable in the company to move.

After he finishes and flushes Stiles zips up his jeans and washes his hands in the sink of his too-small bathroom, avoiding his own reflection in anticipation of splotchy cheeks and hazy eyes.

If the bathroom wasn’t small enough before, it gets impossibly tighter when Derek enters, squeezing behind Stiles to wrap his arms around him, burying his face into the back of his neck. Covering Derek’s arms with his own he leans back slightly, sighing when Derek begins planting kisses up his neck.

The charged tension that’s been buzzing between them since Derek’s possessive display goes up a notch when Derek wordlessly removes Stiles shirt, then his own. Stiles can feel the scratch of Derek’s chest hair against his back when he presses them close again, arms snaking around Stiles waist. Without a further word Derek works at Stiles’s jeans, unzipping them and pulling them down along with his underwear while he mouths wetly at Stiles bare shoulder, tongue licking at the skin, erect length pressing against Stiles’ bare ass.

“Der,” Stiles whispers in the small room, reaching a hand behind him to stroke Derek’s clothed erection. Heeding the prompt Derek undoes his own slacks, pushing them down to his knees and sliding his bare cock against Stiles’ crack, hot and hard.

“Fuck,” Stiles whimpers as Derek grips his hips and shoves him forward, starting to rut against him, biting at the sensitive skin of Stiles’ neck. Stiles needs to grip the sink in order to not topple forward with the force of Derek’s thrusts, the porcelain quickly warming under his hands.

This time he can’t help but look in the mirror, can’t help but see the way Derek is already looking at their reflection, pupils blown and mouth open. Stiles hold onto their mirrored gaze as the sounds of their huffs and groans echo off the tiles.

Derek sets a brutal pace, fingers gripping so tightly onto Stile’s hips that he’s sure to have bruises in them morning, his cock hard against Stiles’ skin. It continues like this for the following minutes until Derek comes with a groan, spilling over Stiles ass and lower back. Derek lets go of Stiles’ hips to reach one hand forward to jack Stiles cock, the other to grip Stiles chin, forcing him to stare at them in the mirror. They both look heated and utterly debauched.

Stiles comes moments later, hunching forward, pressing his ass against Derek’s softening cock. Warm hands stroke up and down Stiles’ sides as he catches his breath and comes back down. Their heads turn towards each other so their lips meet in a heated kiss.

Later that night when they’re tangled together Stiles finds sleep difficult to come by. Derek snores lightly, his large form curled in a rare little-spoon formation against Stiles chest.

His mind is on overdrive, all accelerator and no brakes. Stiles literally cannot believe his life right now. He has a great boyfriend, his dad is healthy, his job isn’t all that bad and he gets to keep his home. For once everything is actually going smoothly, even looking up.

Sure, the gains are basic necessities like health and shelter but Stiles hasn’t felt this assured in a long time. What keeps him awake is the peace warring with the ever-ringing sirens in his head warning him of imminent danger. It’s new, it’s strange - he doesn’t quite know how to mediate a skirmish of lifelong anxiety and newfound contentment in his mind and body.

It’s weird. Sometimes his heart beats lazily while his brain works in double time - other times the echo of his racing heartbeat cannot go unheard while his brain slips into a meditative calm. What does he do with this feeling? Does he let fate play itself out and keep hoping - or does he make his own moves on the board?

Answers don’t come and when he wakes up with bags under his eyes he blames the low temperature and the ever-present noise of the city interrupting his sleep.

It’s the integration of Stiles’ past and present that makes him feel unsettled - neither of them can remain dreamlike whilst they are aware of each other. He misses his dad. He loves Derek. Everything might fall apart. But it might be okay.

 

\----

 

November passes in the blink of an eye. Work, work, christmas decorations, work, Derek, work. The beginning of December is a crazy rush of finding presents for his family and friends and making sure they get posted on time.

Halfway through the month Stiles literally walks into his old friend from high school, Allison. She’d only been at the school for a couple of years before her family moved again but she was Scott’s first girlfriend and they’d all used to hang out together. She seems utterly delighted to see Stiles, hugging him tightly and unable to hide her grin.

Although their time in school was shortlived they’d had a lot of good times. They catch up on their memories and lives over coffee and exchange numbers, promising to meet up again soon.

Stiles calls Scott about it almost straight away - they talk about her and the way things were back then. It’s as Stiles is teasing Scott for writing Mr Scott McCall-Argent in his notebooks that Scott _drops a fucking bombshell_ by announcing his intentions to propose to Kira.

“Wow,” Stiles says. “That’s...wow.”

He was the one who decided to move thousands of miles away so it’s not like he’s entirely justified in feeling a little out of the loop from his best friends life. Even if he mostly thrilled.

And a little weirded out, yeah. Everyone’s getting married and getting mortgages - suddenly it’s like everyone Stiles knew as kids is an adult when just a few years ago their nights were spent on video games, and their free cash on booze.

Honestly, that’s still kind of Stiles’ life at the moment. Should he be thinking of babies and putting a ring on it too? Is he like, a late bloomer?

Despite his inner turmoil Stiles tells Scott that he better be best man - _or else_ \- and is only mildly reassured when Scott tells him that no one else will ever take that position.

On the bright side that means planning another trip back home. When he hangs up later that night he envisions standing at the altar, Derek by his side. It’s pathetic.

And yet.

It’s times like these he misses his parents the most. Whilst his dad is still alive, he’s miles apart, their hugs are scheduled for visits like a prison roster. Stiles’ mom is never going to see the man he becomes or the man he wants to marry. Sometimes he doesn’t know if that particular feeling is heartache or relief.

Still, time passes. Before Stiles can adequately prepare himself December rushes by faster than he’d like and suddenly it’s Christmas Eve.

Derek’s place is pristine polished floorboards, immaculate furniture and startling city views from it’s floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s a sleek chrome kitchen, a double-door fridge, surround sound and three spacious bedrooms. It’s nice, if not slightly impersonal.

With a duffle bag on his shoulder, Stiles taps his feet against the shiny floor. He’s waiting for Derek to finish getting ready to leave for Derek’s parents place in The Hamptons. Because of course they live there. They’re going to be spending the next couple of nights over there so they can be there over Christmas and leaving the following day.

He paces back and forth while Derek packs, chewing the end of his hoodie string into soggy, shredded fibres. When a piece of the rope breaks off into his mouth he stares down at himself, taking in his appearance.

Should he wear a hoodie?

No, no, no. He’s meeting his boyfriend's’ entire family, what was he thinking?!

Stiles tears it off his body and throws it onto the back of Derek’s couch, marching into Derek’s room where he is still packing and rummaging through his drawers.

Derek pauses, watching Stiles bury himself into his closet.

“Stiles. What are you doing?”

Stiles huffs, quickly combing through the hangers. “I need a jacket.”

“Okay...what’s wrong with the one that you were wearing?”

“I need to wear something that doesn’t scream college dudebro.”

“Your liberal use of ‘dude’ and ‘bro’ doesn’t help your case.”

“That is _not_ helpful,” Stiles hisses. “Help me look like a presentable adult!”

Derek sighs from behind him. “There should be a smaller jacket in there somewhere.”

Stiles quickly finds it and pulls it off the hanger, trying it on. Breathing in, it smells like Dereks’ cologne. Without looking in the mirror it seems to fit okay, but he turns to Derek anyway to seek his opinion.

“What do you think?”

Derek steps closer, tugging on the lapels of the jacket, smoothing the fibres of the dark fabric down Stiles’ arms.

“I think you’re adorable.”

Stiles groans, rubbing his eyes. “I was hoping for serious and dignified.”

“You? In what universe?”

“Babe.”

“Stiles. You don’t need to be so nervous, they’ll love you.”

Stiles scoffs, moving out of Derek’s hold to inspect himself in the mirror resting on his wall. It fits pretty well actually, accentuating his waist without looking too big or tight. Definitely not fratboy couture, but he’s not quite sure it broadcasts _good enough for your son_ , either. It’s as good as he’s got though.

“Okay,” Stiles breathes, turning back to Derek. “You ready yet? Chop, chop, tick-tock.”

Derek just rolls his eyes.

 

\--------

 

Once they’re actually in the car and on their way Stiles nervousness multiplies tenfold. He willfully tests Derek’s patience by constantly changing the radio station, tapping incessantly on the dashboard, jiggling his legs up and down. He’s pretty sure he’s breathing like a pregnant woman about to give birth.

Derek leans over to grab Stiles hand, linking their fingers together.

“Should we have brought flowers for your mom?” Stiles asks suddenly.

“Definitely not,” Derek says. “She is _not_ a flowers woman. What we’re bringing is fine.”

They _did_ spend a lot on the whisky and food. Yeah, Derek’s right.

“Okay,” Stiles agrees, letting comfortable silence fall between them and looking out the window. The silence lasts for all of three minutes.

“...should we have brought flowers for your sisters?”

“ _Stiles._ "

“ _What_? Don’t you want to maximize the possibility of me making a good impression? Stack the odds in our favor?”

Derek shakes his head, keeping his eyes on the road. “You make me happy, okay, you’ve already made a good impression. You really don’t need to worry.”

“Please,” Stiles scoffs, squeezing Derek’s hand. “Like you’re not going to be this bad when you meet my dad. He owns guns and knows how to use them.”

Derek grins, turning off the freeway. “So do my parents.”

Stiles stares, jaw dropping.

“Derek!”

Hundreds of laboured heartbeats and twenty minutes later they’re passing neighborhoods of large houses and affluent streets, finally pulling into a large estate. Derek slows the speed and lowering the radio as the headlights illuminate the entrance.

Stiles had always suspected that Derek came from money, his apartment and contents too luxurious for his middle class job. He doesn’t anticipate the actual scope of what he is currently seeing.

There is an actual fucking _guardhouse_ at the tall, gates at the entry of the property, all reinforced steel like sky-scraping prison bars. Derek toots the horn softly. Once noticed, the gates slide open and Derek slows to a stop once inside, sliding down his window to greet the guard.

The guard nods and checks over their car with one of those weird wands that detects bombs, waving at them when they’re clear to go, leaving Stiles to observe in mild disbelief.

What the fuck?? Are the Hales politicians or in like, witness protection or something?

In awe, Stiles continues to watch as the long driveway, flanked by tall trees, leads them to a massive three-storey mansion. He gets a good look as Derek pulls up against the front. It’s all dark brick and windows, a massive garage and a wrap-around porch. Multi-colored Christmas lights decorate the terraces, bright and cheerful against the darkening sky.

When they step out Stiles, ever the Sheriff's’ son, notices the camera’s. They’re everywhere - by the front door, planted by the driveway, in the fucking trees. Tiny red dots follow them all the way up the front steps to the house, weirding Stiles out more and more by the the second.

They knock, the door opened moments later. Two people stand behind it: a man and women aged in their early sixties who Stiles’ presumes to be Dereks’ parents.

His assumptions are confirmed when the two introduce themselves as Talia and Eric, Derek’s mom and dad. They’re dressed impeccably despite being at home, flawlessly donned in high heels and ties, slacks and tights.

Derek and Stiles are both greeted with a hug and a kiss as they enter inside, Stiles anxiously grasping for Derek’s hand as they are led down a long hallway.

“Oh Stiles,” Talia says with a beautiful smile, the hallway lights catching the highlights of her hair. “I am _so_ glad to meet you, you don’t even know.”

“Uhh, same,” Stiles says, glancing back at Derek who purses his lips to suppress a smile.

Pointing out rooms to Stiles as they pass, Talia leads them into a large living room. Stiles tries not to gape but fails. The room is lined with busy bookshelves and adorned with low hanging chandeliers and twenties-era sofas, already populated with people. The room is bigger than Stiles’ entire freaking apartment, but that’s not the startling part.

In a flurry of names and faces Stiles is introduced to Derek’s sisters, his uncles and aunts, cousins, second cousins, in-laws, two nieces and three drooling rottweilers who come to rest by Talia’s feet.

Despite his initial anxiety the night goes on kind of okay. There’s enough food and alcohol and talk that Stiles doesn’t really need to focus on being ‘on’ enough to blend in when there is so many people that it’s very hard to stand out.

Stiles remembers the names of Derek’s parents, his sisters Laura and Cora, and Peter, the uncle that stares at Stiles strangely all night. Again, if Stiles weren’t trained to the movements of a cops eye he would say it was poorly hidden interest, but it’s not quite that. Nothing about the attention suggests attraction so much as it does his incertitude. Peter asks Stiles if he’s interested in chess or poker or politics to which he politely declines.

Stiles is of course interested, but a weird instinct slithers low in his gut and keeps him quiet.

It’s a night of inside jokes and shared memories, gentle ribbing and good company. Stiles hasn’t ever had a family get together like this one, even with previous partners. There is bickering and teasing, yeah, but it seems to be against the underlying current of love and affection.

It’s all quickly shelved and forgotten when they retire to bed that night, Derek and Stiles designated a room in a mostly empty hallway much to his relief. The liquor served during and after dinner keeps Stiles relaxed and sleepy.

Derek doesn’t say much, but the grateful glimpses he cast Stiles’ way says it all.

They undress down to their sweatpants, weaving their limbs together under the sheets in a loose embrace.

 

\----

 

When Stiles wakes up the following morning he’s somehow even more entangled with Derek’s body, arms wrapped tightly around each other on their sides. Stiles’ face is pressed against the crook of Derek’s neck.

When Stiles sighs and breathes in the man's scent the arms around him tighten, making Stiles feel captive and safe. It’s the same way he used to feel when he was a little kid, whenever he would fall over and graze his knee and his dad would pick him up and carry him. It’s been a long time since Stiles truly felt so unconditionally supported like it feels now.

He rubs small circles on Derek’s back with his fingers and keeps his face buried in his neck until he wakes up.

“Merry Christmas,” Derek whispers into Stiles hair, voice raspy with sleep.

“Merry Christmas,” Stiles repeats softly, pressing a kiss to the underside of Dereks’ jaw.

“Wh’time is it?"

Stiles untangles himself so that he can roll over and check the time on his phone.

“Just after seven. What time do we need to be downstairs?”

Derek hums, shuffling across the sheets to press his chest against Stiles’ back, an arm over Stiles waist.

“Probably another hour,” Derek says, draping a leg over Stiles’ thighs, pressing his clothed erection against Stiles ass. They spend the hour like that, drifting in and out of sleep, pressed against each other. It’s quiet out here, no sirens and horns or people yelling or slamming their doors. It’s nice.

Eventually it’s time to get up and get ready. Stiles quickly calls his dad and bids him a merry christmas whilst searching for clothes - he doesn’t really feel comfortable enough to be underdressed around Derek’s family and eventually pulls on a pair of loose jeans and one of Derek’s sweaters. After brushing their teeth they grab their gifts and head downstairs.

Most of the family are already settled into the main living room and are situated around a ten-foot-tall christmas tree. The only word for it is opulent, adorned with baubles and lights that look professionally arranged, stacks of neatly wrapped gifts spilling out at the base.

Talia greets them, a cup of something hot in her hands and a kiss to each of their cheeks. By the time they’re seated on a free sofa and making small talk with the family it seems like everyone is ready to distribute their gifts.

There’s a lot of raucous laughter and heartfelt gratitude as everyone sets about opening their gifts. Stiles isn’t expecting it but he even received a couple from the Hale family, mostly Mets merchandise and candy - it makes him feel bad that he couldn’t afford to get them all something.

“That’s so sweet,” Stiles says to the room. “You didn’t have to do that, I’m so sorry I didn’t get you all something.”

Derek’s dad waves him off. “It’s nothing, don’t you stress. Now you two do yours.”

Derek kisses Stiles cheek when he unwraps his socks and books, thanking him with heartfelt gratitude. It’s not much, but Stiles also created a sexy voucher book that he plans to give Derek in private. It has kinky favors that Derek can cash in whenever he wants - it costs forty cents to make and honestly Stiles will probably get the most out of it, but hey, it's the thought that counts.

Almost hesitantly Derek passes his gift over, a small rectangle wrapped in maroon paper.

Delicately unwrapping it, Stiles jaw drops we he sees what’s inside.

“I know you lost yours,” Derek explains quickly, “and I know you liked that one.”

Stiles wishes he could say that the present was just any old watch. Stiles lost his previous one about a month ago and while he and Derek were out shopping one day he saw this in a window - yeah, did say he liked the look of this one, not that he could ever buy it. Not that anyone should ever buy it for him, ever.

“Derek... this is a ten thousand dollar watch.”

“You don’t like it? I can get you a different one,” Derek rushes to say.

“No, no, I love it - but babe, it’s a _ten thousand dollar watch_. This is way too much.”

Seriously. All he bought Derek was some socks and a homemade voucher book for all of Derek’s kinks, this isn’t even remotely on the same level.

Peter snorts off to the side, throwing back a glass of whisky despite it being nine o’clock in the morning. He seems to have been watching their interaction with keen amusement.

Peter sighs boredly. “I _told_ him it was enough when he bought your building, but did you think he listens?”

Stiles heart skips a beat, his stomach lurching as he processes Peter's words.

Very slowly and deliberately he turns his head back to Derek, the man clearly avoiding Stiles’ eyes.

“Derek?”

“Yes?”

“...Did I just hear what I think I heard?”

Derek coughs, scratching the back of his neck. “I don’t know. Could I hear what you heard if you were the one hearing it?”

Oh hell no, that was Stiles’ game and he is not playing right now. “A word outside, Derek?... Right now?”

Nodding wordlessly Derek stands and follows Stiles out of the room. Stiles clutches the watch to his chest and leads them to the back patio, the freezing cold wind helping to clear his head from the pounding of his own heartbeat.

Once Derek closes the sliding door behind him Stiles gets up in his face.

“Baby -” Derek begins.

“Don’t you ‘baby’ me, Derek Hale - you bought my building?” Stiles hisses, disbelief taking over. “How did you _buy_ a building?”

“I already told you that money isn’t a problem.”

He scoffs, gesturing wildly at their surroundings. “No shit, I know you’re loaded Derek, but a _building_? You work in HR!”

Derek shrugs.

Stiles stops, eyeing the man up and down.

“Wait. You... do work in HR...right?”

Derek shrugs again, one shoulder raising up. “In a manner of speaking.”

“What does that mean? Oh what,” Stiles asks sarcastically, “are you a part of the mob now?”

Derek says nothing. Stiles stares, fingers getting increasingly numb.

“Wait, wait. _Wait_. Hang on - Derek...are you a part of the mob?”

Suddenly the past seven months come rushing back to him - the money, the cars, the family fucking business - which honestly should have been the biggest clue - Derek constantly hurt and coming in injured.

“You’re not actually clumsy, are you?”

Derek shakes his head, looking bashful.

Stiles gasps, offended.

“But you -”

Did Stiles wake up into an alternate universe this morning? Derek, his boyfriend, his sweet and gentle boyfriend is a part of the fucking mob. This can't be real. Stiles is in the house of a family of criminals, the house of the leaders of the criminal underbelly. It's not even the last part that bothers him - it's being the only one in that room that thought this was all part of some weird domestic set-up. No fucking wonder why he felt like he didn't fit in. 

He pinches himself to make sure he’s not dreaming. Nope, he’s awake.

“Stiles,” Derek says, stepping closer. “Let’s go inside, you’re shivering.”

Stiles steps back to get some space between them, pointing a finger at Derek.

“Don’t. Don’t do that - you fucking _lied_ to me, Derek. Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Eventually.”

“When? Were you just... waiting until you got sick of slumming it with me?”

Derek swears, mouth set in a firm line. “I wasn’t _slumming_ _it_ with you - I love you, you idiot. Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

Stiles shakes his head, unable to find the words to respond. Derek tries again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you straight away, but understand that I had to trust you first. By the time I’d trusted you I found out your dad was a cop - I didn’t want you to have a conflict of interest.”

“I get that your _occupation_ isn’t first date conversation,” Stiles swallows, “I’ll give you that. But every time you came to me hurt, injured and brushed it off as some harmless accident… you were...”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ha!” Stiles snorts. “You’re sorry.”

Rage rises hot and heavy in his throat and with long strides he stalks forward, pushing at Derek’s chest and starts shouting in his face.

“You were out there every fucking day getting hurt, putting your life in danger. You could have fucking _died_ and I wouldn’t have even known!"

“Stiles.“

"I don’t deserve that!”

“Stiles - “

“You think I _give_ a shit if you’re a criminal? The whole world's gone to hell - the police are corrupt and our government is bribed into their positions - right and wrong doesn’t exist anymore! As long as the people who get hurt deserve it, I don’t care."

“I’ve never hurt anybody that didn’t deserve it,” Derek says quietly, calm against Stiles anger. “These trades will always need to have a gatekeeper, someone who sets the standards. It’s better us than the rest.”

Stiles wipes his hands down his face as if he could scrub this all away. “God, I feel like such a fucking idiot. What else did you lie to me about?”

“Nothing," Derek says vehemently. "Only my job and how I got hurt. Everything else about me is true.”

Stiles steps back out of Derek’s personal bubble, starting to feel the cold.

“I honestly love you so much that sometimes it actually hurts,” Stiles says, rubbing at the old ache in his chest and catching the soft look in Derek’s eyes as he says it. “I hate that you lied to me. I hate you’re in literal danger without me knowing about it.”

“I wanted to tell you,” Derek offers, stepping forward again and gripping Stiles’ shoulder. “I was trying to take care of you the best way I knew how. I knew how much your apartment meant to you so I made sure you could keep it, that's all. With your dad...I get it though, if you can’t be with me anymore.”

Stiles gives him an incredulous look. “Hold up, cowboy. You are going to tell me absolutely _everything_.”

“Okay,” Derek says agreeably, sliding his hand up from Stiles’ shoulder to cup his neck. Uncertainty lines his face, his usual air of confidence gone.

“Don’t ever lie to me again.”

“I promise,” Derek says solemnly.

“I’m not even joking. I'm not going to tell anybody or judge you, but you will tell me absolutely everything I want to know.”

“I will.”

“Good. I’m keeping this watch.”

Derek huffs a laugh.

“Good. Just let me take you inside or get you a jacket for fucks’ sake.”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

“Hey,” Derek says once they’re inside. “It’s gonna be okay. I'm not ever going to put you in danger.”

Stiles sighs.

“I know, I’m just so mad at you. Like really mad.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You know what this means? You win now. I could literally never pay you back for a whole building.”

“Oh my god,” Derek groans. “Stop it. I can’t believe that’s what you’re mad about.”

“What did I _tell_ you about giving me charity?”

They stop just outside of the living room and look at each other.

Stiles weighs up what he knows now about the people inside and what he cares about, who he cares about. He could turn around right now, go home, move back to California, pretend all of it was just a fever dream and go about living a mostly lawful life. If he asked, Derek would leave him alone and never contact him again. He can see Derek thinking about it too.

Reaching out, Stiles grips Derek’s hand and walks inside.


End file.
